


On Returning

by louis_quatorze



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-05 10:56:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6701980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louis_quatorze/pseuds/louis_quatorze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mathieu Flamini comes back, and he hopes he's a little wiser this time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Returning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rubiconjane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubiconjane/gifts).



> Set in 2013, when Mathieu returns to Arsenal after leaving in 2008.

Mathieu thought of himself as an unsentimental person. He wasn’t sure if that was confirmed or denied by coming back to Arsenal. On the one hand, he was coming back despite everything that had happened, no hard feelings, ready to be professional. On the other, he was coming back at all. There had been other offers.

(“None as good,” Pasquale had said, when Mathieu had told him. “And we want to acquire that firm in Iowa.”)

Sentimental or not, it was strange walking back into Colney. Everything was roughly the same. The same colors, the same decorations. The same staff, mostly, a few new faces here and there, but enough of the guys who were there last time. It was nice to see them. Rob laughed and promised to stock up on the sausages that Mathieu had always liked, back then, and it was so familiar that Mathieu was glad he’d come back. Despite everything, he’d liked it here. 

He wasn’t sentimental. He wasn’t going to say he was home, because he wasn’t – home was a long way from here, had always been. Home didn’t make him speak English. But he’d always been comfortable here, he’d done his best here. It wasn’t the worst thing, to come back.

He ducked his head into the dressing room. He’d be fine.

\-----

Tomas was the first he contacted, of course. He looked essentially the same, no marks of the years on his face – but then, Tomas had always looked young, and it hadn’t been all that long. His English was better, with more London in it. Tomas took him to some new place, Korean, which Mathieu couldn’t say he knew much about. He wondered how the old places were. It wasn’t long in the scheme of things since he’d lived in London, but in restaurant years, that was ancient. 

It was good to see Tomas. A little odd. They hadn’t spent much time just themselves back then – it had been group things, him and Aleks, Tomas, Cesc, Philippe sometimes, Thomas eventually. Exuberant. Tomas hadn’t been the loud one, but he’d been the one to suggest things, to get them to do things – especially Aleks, who was up for anything and tended to think very little through. 

“You remember when – “ Mathieu started.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Mathieu shook his head. This wasn’t the time to bring up Aleks. “Just a little…it’s been a while.” 

“Yeah.” Tomas nodded. “But welcome back. It’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to be back,” Mathieu said, and mostly meant it.

\-----

The first time he saw Mesut, well, maybe he was sentimental. He’d known Mesut, of course, because who didn’t, but there were photographs and there was presence. Him in the light of an English late summer, reflected off the grass of Colney, all sharp angles and a look in his eyes that suggested a healthy sort of reserved skepticism. Mathieu was taken in immediately.

Oddly, it was the least like Cesc Fabregas a person could look. Mathieu felt he had to get credit for that.

For all he knew about Mesut he didn’t know much, other than the obvious things in newspapers. When he’d drifted away from Cesc he’d drifted away from the endless gossip he tended to collect, the stories of who was doing what with who, why, what had been the consequences. Cesc had known everything and Mathieu had been content to listen. But Italy moved differently, and Mathieu had soon found other things to do with himself. 

He wished, for the first time, he’d kept up with that network. 

\-----

“What do you know about Mesut?” Mathieu asked Tomas.

“Mesut?” Tomas tilted his head, considering the question. “What about him?”

“I don’t know. Anything.” Mathieu had been trying to forget, to remember why he’d come back. It hadn’t been to fall again. It had been, in some ways, to sever the less serious part of his life, to prove that he could focus on what mattered. Instead, Mesut had turned up in a bolt of sunshine and Mathieu found himself distracted. 

“Why would I know something?”

The look on Tomas’ face wasn’t one that filled Mathieu with confidence, but it was too much like the old, mischievous Tomas for Mathieu to hate it entirely. “The German thing. You know German.”

“I’ve been in London seven years.” Tomas shrugged, still with that look on his face. Mathieu felt a little uneasy about it now. “What do I know about German?”

“More than me?” Mathieu huffed. “Never mind.”

“He’s a good player.” 

“Yes.” 

“Lucky to have him.”

“You’re an arse.” 

Tomas laughed. “What do you want to know, Mathieu?”

“Just…about him, I guess.”

“Mathieu.” 

“What?” 

“Do you really want to do this?”

Mathieu shrugged. “I’ve been trying not to.” 

“I suppose you are back.” Tomas clapped Mathieu on the shoulder companionably, and Mathieu sort of hated it. He knew what Tomas meant by that, and didn’t like it. He’d been too obvious back then, a bit of a fool. It was embarrassing. “I will see.”

“Thank you, I guess.”

\-----

He hadn’t known enough, with Cesc. He didn’t know what he was getting into. He’d always known Cesc in the broader strokes, the basics. Not the sort of specifics that would have helped him from going in so deep, hoping for so much. If he’d known what to expect, maybe it all would have gone differently. 

He wasn’t going to make the same mistakes with Mesut. It was like his firm – he would do his research, his due diligence. He felt that same tug, and he knew how foolish it all was, but he couldn’t stop. But he wouldn’t let it be like it was before. 

If he’d known that Cesc was the way he was – a tornado of drama, compelling but damaging, the sort of boy who couldn’t bear to let anyone go, to not suck up all the world’s attention – maybe he would have been able to let him go sooner. He still would have left London, probably, but he would have done it with so much more calm.

Instead, he’d swept along blind. He couldn’t do that again. So he researched, instead.

\-----

“You ask about me?”

Being confronted wasn’t part of Mathieu’s plan. “What?”

“You ask.” Mesut was hard to read, his eyes carefully regarding Mathieu.

“Maybe.” It was not, perhaps, the smoothest of responses.

Finally, after what felt like far too long, Mesut smiled. “I like that.”

**Author's Note:**

> (Not 100% sure if they weren't on tour when this all is supposed to be happening, but well.)


End file.
